The Most Important Game
by R.A. Draylin
Summary: James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes both love John Watson. In the midst of their game of wit and intelligence, there was a war going on. Sherlock may have lost this battle, but the war was not over. So maybe, this was just one more roll of the dice. Maybe the game was not truthfully over.


_**The Most Important Game.**_

John stood in front of the freshly dug grave, eyes tracing over the lettering. He slid his fingertips along the edge of the cool, black stone. His face was emotionless, his anger and grief suppressed behind the mask of a soldier. His body though, gave him away. His shoulders slumped, his head tilted downwards, his back hunched slightly. His hand ran up and down his thigh, as if soothing some pain there. He let his eyes wander over the name once again.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

John's forehead crumpled as he let the pain show on his face. His eyes tightly sealed shut, his lips pressed into a thin line. He sighed and shook his head. His best friend was lying in a coffin under him in that very instant, and it made John's heart clench painfully to think that he was standing over the body of the world's only Consulting Detective.

He did not know how long he stood there, but he eventually felt a presence behind him. He did not see or hear anyone, but he knew someone was there and he knew exactly who it was.

"Don't try to comfort me. You did this to him." John's voice was calm, but sounded on the verge of breaking. Moments later, fingers gently intertwined with his own.

"It was a game. He lost. He knew the stakes." The voice colored with an Irish accent stated.

"He thought he would win." John told his companion.

"I knew I would." John could practically hear the grin. He wanted it to make him feel sick, he wanted to feel repulsed as a pair of lips pressed to the side of his jaw, but he just couldn't. John shook his head a bit.

"Really, Johnny, who would you rather want to have lost? You knew that, in the end, one of us would end up dead. Would you rather it have been me?" The voice questioned. John still hadn't looked to meet the waiting dark eyes staring into the side of his head.

"I don't know. I thought I had lost you too. The grief of losing both of you, if only for a few hours, was unbearable. But it was two different types, and they can't be compared." John stated as though he had thought this answer out. "I loved you both, you know."

"Loved?" The voice inquired, almost gently.

"Love. It's easier to use past tense." John corrected. Arms wrapped around the doctor, and the owner of the voice slid in front of him, blocking the view of the grave. A hand lifted his face, dark eyes searched every line and crease, searching his expression.

"I hate sentiment just as much as the next Consulting genius, but I do _love_ you, John. I'm all you have now. You aren't sorry. You're upset that the choice was made, but you aren't sorry." Suddenly, the lips that had been previously pressed to his jaw were pressed to his lips. The kiss wasn't deep, but it was passionate. It conveyed the love and support which would have not been conveyed through actual words. The hand intertwined with his again, and pulled him away from the grave. The pair headed for a sleek black car, and John was gently directed into the car.

Halfway across the cemetery, under a large tree, Sherlock Holmes stood. He watched as his best friend got into a car with his newest archenemy. Just as James Moriarty made to get into the car, he looked up and met Sherlock's eyes.

"_I win"._ He mouthed, before winking. Sherlock stayed still as the car drove off. He had lost. He may still be breathing, and his heart may be beating, but he had truthfully lost the most important game. James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes both love John Watson. In the midst of their game of wit and intelligence, there was a war going on. Sherlock may have lost this battle, but the war was not over. So maybe, this was just one more roll of the dice. Maybe the game was not truthfully over.

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><p><strong>AN: **Nothing of the wonderful show of Sherlock belongs to me. I am from America, and this has not been Brit-picked, so I'm sorry if there are any errors of that sort in there.

I haven't decided whether this could continue on or not. I wrote this a while ago, way before the third series was even close. If I do continue, I will be sure to incorporate details of the third series (once I've seen it).

Please review, I value the opinions and critique of everyone willing to offer it.


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